


Downtime

by Eligh



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, False Memories, Fix-It of Sorts, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil's positive he doesn't know this guy. He's just some punk in a purple hoodie; there's no reason for him to be familiar. </p><p> </p><p>  <strong>Read the warnings in the notes, k?</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Downtime

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for non-graphic completed suicidal actions. No one dies, sort of, and if you're worried, I've put more spoilery notes at the bottom.

Downtime.

Phil… doesn’t really enjoy downtime, at least not anymore. Granted, he isn’t sure why he’s using the modifier ‘anymore,’ because he doesn’t actually remember a time when he _had_ enjoyed the mandatory leave that happened after ops went bad, but—sometimes he feels like he _should_. Enjoy the quiet, that is. People liked having vacations. Normal people, obviously, though he’s fairly sure that whatever it is that SHIELD is keeping from him, it involves him being not-quite normal any more, but…

He digresses.

Downtime equates to not being on the bus, and a solid week where Nick has threatened him with severe bodily harm if he so much as steps foot on the carrier, so—

So it’s six in the morning and he’s freezing, wrapped in a bulky jacket and jeans, knit hat pulled low, a far cry from his usual suit-and-tie semi-uniform. He’s not sure what he’s doing here, waiting for the train to take him out to Montauk, but it seemed like a good idea. Like it would be a familiar, good place, even though he can’t remember the last time he took the train out this far.

“Hey, ‘scuse me.”

The voice breaks through his fog of a mood, and Phil looks up to hooded grey-blue eyes, smiling out at him from under a tattered violent purple hoodie. The guy smiles, a little uncertain, and Phil schools his face into something more Agent and less… whatever it was that he was doing. There’s a pause while they inspect each other for a second, and then the guy asks, “Sorry, but do you have the time?”

Phil blinks. “Um, yea, I…” He shakes his hand out of his pocket and inspects his watch. “Oh-six-oh-seven.”

The guy nods. “Thanks.” He glances down the line and then back at Phil, so fast that Phil almost misses it. “Train’s late. Damn thing’s always late.”

Phil nods, too. “Commute?” he asks, though it’d be an insane commute if that’s the case.

With a quiet laugh, the guy shakes his head. “Nah, I never come out here.” He doesn’t seem to notice how odd it is that he knows the train’s always late if he never rides the train, but Phil doesn’t call him on it. He looks down at his shoes, instead.

“Thanks,” the guy says again, still quiet and soft, and sidles off to stand about twenty feet away, his hands tucked into the kangaroo pocket on his sweater. Phil fights down the urge to call him back over, because it’s almost like he _knows_ him. There’s something niggling in the back of his mind, but after a moment more of watching him side-eye, Phil squashes it.

That was odd.

~

Phil’s sheltered in the lee between a couple dunes, watching the ocean eat away at the shoreline. It’s quiet and he’s still cold, and he feels this odd combination of relaxed and aggravatingly on edge. He feels like he’s forgotten something, something that should _be here_ with him on the beach.

Why did he even come out here?

The spot he’s found is distantly familiar and there’s a massive chunk of driftwood half-buried in the side of one dune that makes a perfect backrest. Someone’s carved their initials in the log, PC+CB, and Phil finds himself unconsciously tracing the letters. They’re old, weathered and half-obscured with sea salt and sand and wind, and he wonders if the couple’s still together. If they’re happy.

He abruptly feels very lonely.

A flutter of movement further down the beach catches his eye, and he pushes himself to sit up straighter to get a good look. The movement resolves itself into a purple blur, and Phil realizes that it’s the guy from the station.

He’s playing with the waves, running in and splashing at the water for a second before bolting back, away from the swell that’s threatening to soak his jeans. He’s fast, and Phil doesn’t see him lose to the tide once, not even after he realizes that he’s been watching the guy for almost ten minutes.

It takes a shockingly long amount of time for Phil to realize that if he stays where he is, the guy’ll be able to see him, and soon. He debates settling in, gathering up some of the brush scattered on the wind-swept beach for a small fire. He could invite the guy over and they could warm their hands together. Maybe the guy would tell him his name, and Phil could smile and tease him, tell him that the purple goes surprisingly well with his eyes. They could exchange phone numbers, and maybe the next time Nick decides to ground him, Phil wouldn’t feel so—

So empty.

He waits ‘til the guy’s back is turned and then slinks behind a dune to get away.

~

In the diner he picked for a late lunch, Phil studiously glares at his book and doesn’t look up to where he knows the guy in the purple hoodie is sitting. He doesn’t think he’s being afforded the same courtesy; he can feel eyes boring into the top of his head.

He finally looks when the bill comes, but the guy’s staring down at his bowl of soup now, the wicked smile on his face barely covered when he takes a spoonful of something that looks thick and warm and full of vegetables. Phil leaves without a word.

~

“Do I know you?”

Phil snaps his head up from where he’s staring sightlessly at his book and finds his vision blocked by purple. The guy from this morning is leaning over the back of the seat in front of him, arms buried in his sweater. He looks equal parts perplexed and curious, and Phil drifts up one corner of his mouth.

“You asked me what time it was this morning.”

The guy waves a hand dismissively before reburying it in what looks like very soft cotton. They’re on the line back to Babylon and the sun’s setting, and Phil’s aware that riding the train for four hours to get to a beach for no reason in the middle of January is probably a little crazy, but apparently he wasn’t the only one with this idea today.

“No, my memory’s not that bad, I obviously remember that. But you seem familiar.” The guy smiles again, more sure of himself than he was at six in the morning. Phil marks his place with a finger and closes his book.

“I don’t think I know you.” The guy licks his lips, and it’s distracting. Phil swallows.

There’s a shuffle, and then the guy’s pulling a hand out of his hoodie’s pocket again. This time he’s sticking it in Phil’s face. “Clint.” Phil hesitates for half a second before putting up his own hand. Clint’s grip is calloused, rough. Phil recognizes the feel of gun-wear, but there’s something else there, too. _A bow_ , his mind supplies, and he’s not sure how he knows that. He doesn’t think he knows any archers.

“Phil.”

“Pleased t’meetcha,” Clint says, his mouth curved in another half-sheepish smile. “I saw you on the beach, too, but you didn’t look like you wanted company.”

“And here I’d thought I was being stealthy,” Phil murmurs, and reclaims his hand. Clint smiles again, but sharper.

“You’d be surprised the things I see.” The grin falters and Clint sighs, slumping down in the seat until just the upper half of his face is showing. “That sounded creepy. I don’t mean to be creepy.”

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” Phil says quickly, even though he isn’t sure why he’s reassuring the guy. “I mean, you’re fine.”

“Fine,” Clint repeats, though he sounds a little annoyed. Phil feels… lost. This isn’t how conversations usually go. He opens his mouth to say something more, but Clint slouches down even further, his dirty blond hair disappearing behind cracked blue plastic seating. Phil glances down at his book and then sets it aside.

“If anything, I was being creepy,” he tells the back of the seat in front of him. “I was watching you on the beach.”

“I noticed.” Clint’s voice floats up toward him, slightly muffled and oddly disembodied. Phil—well, Phil has an entirely unexplained reaction to this: a jolt of panic, the pressing need to see Clint and know he’s really there, and so he surges up and hooks his arms over the back of the seat so he can look down. Clint’s sprawled across all three bucket seats of the row ahead, and that can’t be comfortable.

He looks up at Phil with a raised eyebrow. “Y’alright?”

Phil wills his heart to stop beating so fast. “Yea. Yes. Sorry, I just—nevermind.” He rocks back in his seat and glares at the beat-up blue plastic separating them. It’s not the right color, _this_ blue, but it’s making him think of something else. One of his assets? Lost in battle, maybe. Weird that he can’t remember, he always can remember. Knows the name of every agent KIA in all his time at SHIELD.

Ice blue eyes and fear and loss. He clenches his fists and looks down at his lap.

“You don’t look alright,” Clint observes, and when Phil looks up, his new train-friend is peering over the back of the seats again.

“You’re familiar to me, too,” Phil finds himself admitting, and is quietly horrified for a moment that he let that thought out. Just a moment, though, because Clint’s smiling again. It’s a very nice smile.

“Maybe I got one of those faces,” Clint says, but Phil shakes his head.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Hell, I dunno.” Clint slides sideways, stretching out an arm across the back of the seats and resting his head on it. “What were you doing out in Montauk? Playing hooky?” Those sharp eyes flick up and down, cataloging. “I’m not sure if you’re an accountant or a g-man, but my money’s on something more dangerous than Excel programs.”

Phil huffs out a little laugh and leans back against the uncomfortable seat. “G-man. Ish. And I’m not really playing hooky. I’m grounded for the time being.”

“Ish, huh?” Clint drawls, the corners of his mouth tilting sideways. He looks pleased. “Called it. You could probably kick my ass, huh? Betcha got some serious muscle under that jacket.”

“I’m functioning in more of an overseeing position these days,” Phil says. “Some fieldwork, but I got… hurt… in the battle last year.” The pause is barely noticeable, but Clint’s eyes flicker, anyway. Phil’s pretty sure he’s going to ask something more, maybe something about SHIELD, or what the hell he was doing that got him hurt, but Clint just lifts his head.

“I did, too. They tell me I fought, but I don’t really remember.”

Unexpected.

“You… are you a cop?” Phil’s pretty sure Clint doesn’t work for SHIELD. He’d remember his face if that was the case.

Clint’s face shutters for a moment and he sinks a little lower on the seat. But then he blinks and smiles. “Just a guy with good aim. I own an apartment building in Bed-Stuy, actually.” He waves his hand again, cutting off a non-existent protest on Phil’s part. “I know, I know, but I’m not some sleazy slumlord. I live in the building, too. Try to keep it safe, you know. Clean. The tenants, there was this Russian mob thing, long story, sorta crazy, but…” He seems to realize he’s rambling and shakes his head.

“Nevermind. I had a point. I’m an archer, I apparently fought in the battle last year, got hit in the head. Docs said that’s the reason for any random blank spots, and I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.” He grins sheepishly and Phil finds himself mirroring it.

“Maybe I have one of those faces.”

There’s two fingers poking him gently and affectionately in the shoulder before Phil even realizes what’s just happened.

“Don’t be a dick,” Clint chides teasingly, and Phil affects a scandalized look.

“Never.” He’s not sure where this relaxed, flirting side of him came from. He hasn’t flirted with anyone since—since someone. He can’t really remember, and that is, just, aggravating. He frowns slightly and rubs at his temple. When he glances back up, Clint’s watching him thoughtfully, the smallest curl of his lips betraying his amusement with this whole conversation.

It’s like a punch to the sternum. Too-intense eyes, something half remembered.

“How do I know you?” Phil asks, barely a whisper. “We really haven’t met before?”

Clint’s quiet. He licks his bottom lip and looks about ready to say something when the intercom above them crackles to life, announcing a stop. The train screeches and they rock forward and back as it slows down. Clint glances out the window.

“It’s my stop. Yours too, I guess, if you’re getting off where you got on.” Phil actually hadn’t been planning on getting off here—he’d wandered on foot for a while this morning before deciding to board the train, and Lola is parked probably a good couple miles away.

He stands up anyway, because he can’t imagine letting Clint out of his sight for right now. Delay the inevitable.

Clint shoots him a small smile and they disembark. Phil barely remembers to grab his book, has to go back to retrieve it, and is pleased when Clint’s hovering on the platform, waiting. He looks a little uncomfortable, nervous, and Phil stills in front of him, his stomach churning.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get a beer,” Clint says, all in a rush, staring down at his feet. “You wanna come?”

“Yea,” Phil breathes, relieved, and they fall into step next to each other like they’ve been doing it for years.

~

They’re either three or four beers in, drinking some sort of high ABV stout that Clint swears is nectar of the gods. It’s nice because the bar’s quiet and almost empty, something Phil’s sure is due to the fact that it’s a Tuesday and you can’t even see the door of this place from the street. It’s also nice because they’re parked at one end of the bar, leaning heavily into one another’s space. Clint’s hand is resting loosely high on Phil’s thigh, and it feels so damn good.

Feels right.

Phil slides his arms along the bar, invading more of Clint’s space and leaning in. They’re almost close enough to kiss. “Talk to me,” he murmurs, not sure where the order comes from, and Clint’s mouth quirks.

“Situation wonderful, sir,” Clint breathes back, and then looks a little surprised with himself. He recovers quickly enough, tilting his head slightly to the side and moving even closer.

They’re pushing it a little; this isn’t a gay bar and while New York’s pretty decent on the daily about this whole scene, Phil’s not sure how much further they should test limits in public like this. It’s not him, that’s for sure, not his usual display of cool detachment. He’s never been big on public affection, but right now he almost doesn’t care.

“I bet you taste perfect,” Clint’s muttering into his mouth, and that’s what decides it. Phil leans in that half an inch more, brushing their lips together, and it’s like…

Like it’s heaven and everything he’s ever wanted and just so _right_. Phil wonders distantly if this is what people mean by love at first sight.

“Coulson.”

Phil jerks back, startled like he never is, and swivels on his bar stool, overbalancing and slouching half off the cracked vinyl so Clint’s side’s the only thing holding him up. Clint squawks in protest and rescues his pint off the scarred surface of the bar so Phil’s flop doesn’t jostle it. It takes Phil a second to refocus, but when he does, he smiles at least a little.

“Hill…?” He glances over his shoulder at Clint, suddenly not as sure. Clint’s glaring over at Hill, obviously annoyed by her interruption.

“Friend of yours, Phil?” he asks, and Phil shouldn’t get the little thrill that he does at the slight sound of possession in Clint’s voice. He definitely shouldn’t shiver the way he does when Clint’s hand snakes around, settling greedily on his hip.

Phil doesn’t answer at first, instead taking a moment to inspect Hill—and what’s she doing here? He hasn’t seen her recently, not since his decision to include Ward on his new team. She looks a little disconcerted now, though, a little wrong-footed. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk. He doesn’t think Hill’s ever seen him drunk.

“Hill,” he says again, more forcefully this time. He resists the urge to check his phone because he knows it isn’t on silent. He would have heard it ring if there was an emergency. “Can I help you?”

She crosses her arms and shifts, resettling her weight. Her eyes keep sliding off him and toward Clint, who’s leaning back against him, now. She licks her lips and refocuses, getting Phil firmly in her sights. “What are you doing here?”

“He’s getting a drink, lady,” Clint says—slurs, a little, and Phil somehow knows he’s playing up how drunk he is. “Tends to be what one does in a bar.”

She eyes Clint again, something simultaneously dangerous and worried on her face and Phil raises a hand, placating. “This is Clint. We met on the train.” He glances over his shoulder and into Clint’s face, so close. Clint smirks and takes a sip of his beer. “Clint, this is Maria Hill. We work together.”

“Hi,” Clint says, and the smile he favors her with isn’t particularly friendly. Hill’s eyes crinkle and she looks—constipated, and unsure. Phil’s not sure why; it’s not like he’s doing anything against regs. He decides that constipated and unsure is not a very good look on her.

“I don’t understand,” she says softly. “You’re not.” She checks herself and shakes her head. “Phil, let’s go back to the carrier. I want medical to look you over. I’m not sure you’re supposed to be getting this drunk.”

Again, Phil’s not sure how he knows, but he’s pretty sure she’s lying. There’s nothing wrong with him that Tahiti didn’t fix, and he’s been cleared for all activity. He’s been in the field for months, anyway, and he’s pretty sure that a couple beers isn’t cause for alarm. Besides, he reasons, if Clint was secretly some sort of threat that Hill knew about, she would have code-worded. She hasn’t, so… there’s that.

The way he can feel Clint tense up behind him doesn’t really help, either.

“No,” he says, quick. “No, I’m fine. I was going to go home soon, anyway.” He turns to Clint, who’s watching them warily. “My place isn’t far from here,” he says, even though that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It’s not close, really, but it’s closer than Bed-Stuy. “Come with me.” Phil can see the way Clint physically relaxes at that, just as easily as he can see Hill tense further in his periphery.

“Okay,” Clint says. Hill’s shaking her head, but Phil ignores her. He pulls out his wallet and drops some cash on the bar before grabbing Clint’s hand and dragging him out, instead. Behind them, he’s aware that Hill’s speaking into her comm, but he doesn’t care, not one little bit.

~

“I don’t do this,” Phil breathes into Clint’s mouth, leaning over him on his bed. Clint hitches a gasping breath and lifts his head, offering up his neck. Phil takes full advantage, pressing kisses along lines of tendon while keeping up the steady rhythm of three fingers pushing slowly into Clint’s ass.

Clint’s hand is pressed against the scar next to his heart. He’d stared at it for a long time when Phil’s shirt came off, his face unreadable until Phil had ducked down and kissed him again. After that, he’d just looked relieved, and then blissful, and now he’s staring up into Phil’s eyes with an expression that could almost be described as rapturous.

“I don’t, either,” he says. “I mean, a couple times. But it’s not the same. There’s something, Phil—”

Phil twists his fingers, spreading them a little and dragging his thumb through lube to press up at the soft skin behind Clint’s balls. Clint’s eyes roll back, and Phil has to kiss him again.

“Yea,” he agrees, breathless. “Yes.”

It doesn’t take long before he’s pressing in, his cock spreading Clint deliciously, and Clint’s groaning underneath him, babbling nothings, words that Phil barely registers until Clint’s breathing into his mouth. “I missed this, how the fuck did I miss this, I don’t even know you, why’re you so right, I—”

Phil shushes him, dragging his hips back out before pressing in deeper. “I know, I know,” he whispers, because sex never feels like this, like coming home. Clint latches his arms around Phil’s shoulders and bears down, forcing Phil in until his balls are nestled tight against the curve of Clint’s ass. Phil feels like he can’t breathe.

Clint’s mouth is biting hard at his collarbone, just like Phil likes. Phil gets his hand around Clint’s dick and strokes him roughly, rougher than he usually would with someone he’s fucking for the first time, but Clint just whines and bucks into it. They’re settling into a low, slow grind, Phil barely moving his hips at all, letting Clint rock up and control their pace from the bottom.

He can feel every inch of Clint, the way his toes are curling against the sheets, and Clint’s fingers digging into his ass cheeks, urging him closer and deeper, the rasp of stubble over his lips and the sweat mussing the light smatter of hair on Clint’s chest. One of Clint’s hands snakes up his back and grabs tight to the back of Phil’s neck and that’s dangerous, he could shift and snap Phil’s neck if he wanted but Phil knows he won’t, he trusts him, this stranger he just met today, trusts him more than he trusts Nick and Hill and Jasper and May and Ward and it’s stupid, stupid.

“I love you,” Phil gasps out. “Clint. I miss you.”

“God Phil,” Clint groans. “Me too, life’s horrible without you.”

They don’t talk again after that, just move together and Phil thumbs over the head of Clint’s cock and Clint clenches down. They come close enough together that it’s almost simultaneous, and it takes his dick sliding out of Clint’s ass for Phil to realize that they didn’t use a condom. He monumentally doesn’t care.

“Don’t leave,” he asks into the humid air of his bedroom, and Clint shakes his head.

“No. I’m right here.”

“Okay,” Phil says, and pulls Clint close. He can’t let go, because then this might be a dream.

~

Phil wakes to the overhead light in his bedroom being flicked on. He jolts, and next to him Clint tenses, flails for a half a second looking for something under the pillow that isn’t there. A gun, probably.

Nick makes himself comfortable in the armchair on the opposite side of the room, brushing Clint’s jeans from the armrest before flipping his trenchcoat out and settling silently. Phil watches him and the puzzle starts to fall into place.

“Explain to us what’s happening,” he says, he voice low and venomous. Nick’s his friend, but something’s obviously going on. Beside him, Clint’s hands are fisted in the sheets and he’s staring at Nick with something like resignation on his face.

“I know this guy,” he says, barely loud enough for Phil to hear him. “He offered me a job shooting people.”

“And I should have known you wouldn’t accept, not without Agent Coulson to ease the way,” Nick says, amicable. He licks his lips. “Alpha-niner-foxtrot-zero-zero-whiskey-tango.” Phil blinks. Clint’s hands tighten further and Phil hears the quiet rip of his sheets tearing under his fingers.

It’s all very strangely anti-climactic.

Nick nods. “Welcome back, boys.”

Clint’s the one that breaks the silence this time. “You fucker, you told me he was dead.”

“Watch yourself, Agent,” Nick cautions, but Clint doesn’t seem to be ready to hear it.

“You showed me his body, Nick!”

“Clint,” Phil whispers, not caring one iota that he’s sitting naked in his bed in front of his director. He has far more important things to worry about. He turns and curls his fingers around Clint’s biceps, because he’d thought—never thought he’d be able to do this again. “Clint, you’re not—they got you back. How’d you come back?”

“How ‘bout I explain,” Nick says dryly, and they both look at him.

“Phil died on the helicarrier,” he murmurs. “That was not a lie. You were stabbed through the lung, and Loki’s scepter nicked your heart. You bled out and we were unable to save you.” Clint’s fingers squeeze Phil’s, and Phil’s suddenly sure he doesn’t want to hear this.

“We have protocols in place for shit like that,” Nick continues, still staring at them. “I’m not about to lose the best agent I’ve ever had because of a little hiccup like dying.” He pauses. “You’re a life model decoy, Phil. Organic robot, and I know you’ve looked at the basic blueprints. We have backups of everyone important, you know that, too.”

Phil and Clint don’t say anything.

“We modified your memories because I am of the impression that you let yourself be killed because you thought we weren’t getting Barton back. You were compromised, Phil. So we gave you Tahiti and took away Clint.”

Phil can’t argue with the fact that he was compromised. Still. “You could have—”

“I’m getting to that,” Nick interrupts, holding up his hand.

“Don’t,” Clint says suddenly, forcefully. “Please, Nick.”

Nick shoots him a murderous look. “You got yourselves into this shit, didn’t you? I’m telling him.”

Clint looks down. “Sir.” And now Phil’s worried.

“Agent Barton buried you, the actual you,” Nick continues, though he sounds a little pained. “And then we—SHIELD psych, me, we made a mistake. We didn’t watch him close enough. He as good as killed himself a week after your funeral. Walked into a firefight, let himself get hit.”

Phil whips sideways and cups Clint’s face. “The hell—”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t. I’d killed so many people, my friends, and you were gone and it was my fault, I planned it, I told Loki that if he found you, not to hesitate. I _told_ him, Phil, I—” Clint’s babbling and looks like he’s about to cry and Phil can’t handle it. He pulls Clint close and tries to breathe.

There’s a moment of silence and then Nick says, “Clint’s an LMD, too. I told you, I’m not about to lose my best agents, but it took the Black Widow a week to retrieve his body.” He shifts and sits up straighter. “We took all of SHIELD away from you, Clint. I’d hoped to be able to butter you up a little down the road. Ease you back in.”

Silence echoes in Phil’s bedroom for a long while, then.

“So…” Phil finally says. Nick clears his throat.

“You both had the implant that records everything that makes up ‘you’ for the LMD project. We uploaded you and you’re as close to yourselves as anything. Most people won’t ever notice a difference.” He sighs. “I should’ve known you two assholes would find a way to subconsciously access your buried memories, though. You went out to Montauk today, didn’t you.” It wasn’t really a question, but Phil and Clint nod anyway. Nick sighs again. “Remind me not to give you downtime around your anniversary again.”

Fear curls in Phil’s chest. “You won’t take him away again,” he says, and in his desperation doesn’t notice that his voice cracks. Clint curls his hands possessively around Phil’s chest.

“We’ll run,” he adds, and Phil nods.

“Stand down, Agents,” Nick says tiredly, getting to his feet. “You’ll have to die again for us to have access to your heads.” He smiles a little. “Try to make every effort not to do so. I don’t like my friends dying.” He starts to walk out, but pauses with his hand on the door.

“Agent Barton, consider yourself reactivated. Report for duty on Monday at the helicarrier. Agent Coulson,” he pauses, and then rubs his hand over his eye. “Seems to me that your team is missing a sniper. See if you can’t think of anyone to fill the position. We’ll also need to discuss if you two want to let anyone other than level sevens know about your continued existence.” And with that, he’s gone, closing the door silently behind him.

Phil stares at the door for over a minute until he feels Clint shift in the bed next to him. He turns, and he’s got everything, their life together, their first kiss, the way Clint’s been a force in his head from the first moment they made contact.

“We’re us, Phil,” Clint whispers.

They’re not, not really. But it’s close enough. He reaches out and threads his hand into Clint’s hair. Their kiss is soft and heartbreaking, but Phil knows that Clint won’t leave. Dying won’t be the thing that breaks them.  

**Author's Note:**

> Phil and Clint are both life model decoys. Phil died on the carrier. Clint couldn't hold it together after, and so put himself in a situation where he was killed in the line of fire. Fury isn't about to accept that.


End file.
